No one wants to fall in love with a poet
She swallows bitter in her coffee
that he never could taste.
She embraces crazy with silky arms
that he only thinks he can feel.
Blinded by enthusiasm
Burned by her heat
he longs to see a secret side
where a darkness plays and a child wonders
where sharp words cut like guillotines
then blossom like time-lapse photography.
His silhouette backlit in the doorway,
"Play me like that keyboard," he whispers.
But she does not hear him.
She is an implosion of secret voices
a raging fire that offers brief, icy stares.
The tip of her tongue poised for fruition
She is dancing on the edge without him.
She must grab disappearing words
before they extinguish.
The frays on her edges prick his skin
No one should ever fall in love with a poet.